doesn't care, briefly considers writing entirely without pronouns to say such things as: avoids conflict at any cost, has become a tiny and withdrawn, isn't particularly graceful, lets it go lets it go and 'how do you spell it?' is racey-hearted is tiring of the lack of boundaries starting with the time __ walked in on __ in the bathtub opened the fridge, didn't want to give back the house key, thought it was okay to borrow the giant suitcase to 'move things' would let __ borrow it back. she tires of avoiding pronouns and he agrees that it was a stupid endeavor in the first place, just an example of her lacking identity. he aims to hit in that deepest part. calls her names and tells her he loves her in the same breath. lies and tells the truth all while exhaling. easy does it easy does it. she turns the music louder thinks of finding him sitting grinning in the front of the firetruck, unaware that she was terrified she'd never see him again. finds herself back on the couch with the squirrel heartbeat, the birds building nests in the carport, becomes a verb. is fuck. is surrender. is transference. is doing it out of anger. is being taken along for the ride. is sure she can survive this again. telling them no they can't eat the swedish fish because they're for papa - holding him by the lips scolding and apologizing, not sure which is right. is vague and wondering if she could write and write and write it all away again, given a sunny (or rainy) enough day and several things to procrastinate about. she thinks maybe he thinks she's a poor mother, a shitty excuse for a lover. but secretly thinks this. g-r-a-p-e. i can't sit inside that tiny hole, wait for you to be uninhibited enough to let me speak my mind. 'is that all mama?' renzo's documenting the whole thing on a broken camera. sneaking around behind my back. 'how do you spell orange?' *pause* these are demon days and i'm back on lexington watching national geographic on vhs, smelling my grandpa's tshirts, pilfering my grandma's fine point markers, anal retentive even then, never once finishing anything. we fancied ourselves videographers, dirtying babies with ketchup, flushing matches down the toilet, burying our secrets in the dirt. a window broken during the 1989 earthquake left me with a sliver of glass in my heel that travels to the surface. to remind me where i'm from? i am from cancer, artichokes, the boy that felt me up and down- my first kiss 12? 13? knute something or other... we're reminded of him every time we play trivial pursuit. p-e-a-c-h.